Faith, Trust and Pixie Dust
by The Maiden Amorisa
Summary: My reflections on how peter pan was brought into my life as a child now that I am almost an adult. Please read and review =)


I had to write an essay for my senior class telling about us, I turned this in and got the highest A in the class:  
  
"Faith, Trust, And Pixie Dust"  
  
Who were your childhood heroes when you were growing up? Mine were Peter Pan and my Grandfather. Growing up, I had very few friends, since I grew up in a neighborhood with no children. My main hero, my grandfather, brought my second hero to life, Peter Pan-through stories and playtime. It is because of this interaction with my grandfather that I have become a creative, happy individual.  
  
When I was a little girl, I had been somewhat lonely. Being raised in a neighborhood with barely any children was not easy. I was around adults all the time. While they gave me attention, they could never be my childhood friends. A child needs a friend and it's up to the parents to make sure they have friends so he or she can grow up with better social skills. Since I grew up in a house only with adults, I was somewhat lonely. I didn't have any siblings or any other children to play with in my neighborhood. I had my grandparents and mother, of course, who showered me with love and attention. They were my friends, yes, but I needed to interact with children. That was a somewhat difficult feature to accomplish, considering there were no children in my neighborhood. I spent most of my days watching my hero, Peter Pan, on TV for countless hours.  
  
My family began to see how important Peter Pan was to me: he made me happy. He was my imaginary friend and I was no longer lonely. I had my friend. Along with the love from my family, in my mind I had the love of Peter Pan as well. In fact, my grandpa would even get into it by telling me stories and playing Peter Pan and Captain Hook with me almost every night for eight years. Ever since I was three, he would tell me stories of Peter Pan, coming up with a new and inventive story every night where Peter Pan would fly into my room and take me to Neverland for a grand adventure. He would even, at times, play Peter Pan and Captain Hook with me, I was Peter Pan and he was Captain Hook until I got too strong for him and would accidentally kick him.  
  
Faith, trust, and pixie dust those simple words would lead me into a world of my own imagination where in my wildest fantasies, Peter Pan would rescue me from the cruel children of elementary school, take me on a trip to Neverland and I'd be back before school ended. It would be that simple to make my dreams and imagination take off. I'd write my own adventures of Peter Pan and Captain Hook; I'd write stories about damsels in distress, mermaids and unicorns. I was perfectly happy not having any friends. Who needed them? I was in my own creative world.  
  
When I turned thirteen, my creativity died. I was in the bleak, miserable world of middle school, where cruelty reigned and there was very little free time at all for imaginative stories. Just trying to get through the day without pulling out my hair was a tiresome task, so I lost my belief in faith, trust and pixie dust. It was on a shelf of memories, a forgotten past, a past where a little girl didn't have any friends. Thankfully I did later find, one friend to help me through my sorrow of Middle School.  
  
If it were not for an event that happened in my life recently, those percious memories would still beon a forgotten shelf. My grandfather, the giver of my magic touch of imagination, was diagnosed with cancer and was given fewer than five years to live. I have lived with my grandparents all my life, so this came as quite a shock. Since I had no real father figure in my life, my grandpa was my father and my grandpa. He played such an important role in my life that I was not willing to accept the fact he was going to die, and possibly so soon.  
  
The night after I found out the horrible news, I sat on my bed just thinking quietly, "What would happen if he died?" All I would have are my memories of him taking me to Disneyland and Knotts' Berry Farm almost every day with our annual pass, going up to the lake for a vacation and the stories he used to tell me. Then it hit me-the stories he used to tell me! I instantly remembered them all so well the eternal youth, flying through my room and taking me off on grand adventures with pirates, Indians and mermaids. Tears of happiness came to my eyes as I remembered that special bond we had: the stories of Peter Pan that he had told me. At times, I was not very nice to my grandpa, and just remembering everything he had done for me, giving me the gift of creativity made me feel horrid that I had not been a better person to him all the time.  
  
I decided I would try to see if, for one last time, I could remember those stories personally. So, I asked my grandfather if he would tell me one more story before he passed on. One last story about Peter Pan and myself the story to end all the stories. He agreed. He told me one day when I least expected it, the story would come to him. You must understand I felt the urgency to get my story because the doctors had diagnosed the remainder of my mothers life. She had died recently and the doctor told me she had five months to live. It turned out to be five days. To me, time was of the essence and I had to cherish every last moment I had with my grandpa while I still had the time.  
  
The story did come. One night this summer, we were at Disneyland, passing through Fantasyland. We decided we would go on Peter Pan's Flight, since it had been years since we were on it. As we stood in line, I reminded my grandpa of his promise to me. He agreed. We talked about the past; the good times we shared when we had bonded on a deeper level because I was deeply engrossed in Peter Pan. He said those were some of his happiest times because he could see the joy in my eyes. Tears than came to my eyes.  
  
On our way home, I got my story. While it was corny for a young woman of seventeen, I could not of imagined any story better than the one my grandpa told me. It had sentimental value more than anything else, but it is something I will always treasure.  
  
The sad event has caused me to get back into my creative streak of writing stories. My grandpa is still alive. This incident has taught me to respect him more, and treat him much better than I used to. While I am not perfect, I am trying to improve myself and I love spending more time with him while I can and treasure every moment of it. He is the influence to all my stories...to my creativity and light of happiness. I dedicate all my stories and this essay to him. Without my grandpa giving me faith, trust and a sprinkle of pixie dust, I would not be the creative, happy individual that I am today. So, Grandpa, I thank you for helping me learn to fly and soar over the heights of cruelty and lack of faith into a world where I control the story and my creative destiny.


End file.
